I’m being haunted by a ghost.
He’s never really there,
but sometimes he makes a sound,
and makes me think I’m not alone.
He’s like cigarettes to me;
they both destroy me slowly,
but I can’t stop reaching for them when I’m low.
He doesn’t know how to love;
he can only run away.
But I, when I feel something,
I run towards it with all my heart.
I’m not afraid to love,
and I’m not scared of ghosts.
always seeking mine to hold for comfort;
at night, wielding a knife to cook for me;
when you write, holding your pen the wrong way,
and holding on way too tightly;
your hands, my love,
are precious to me.
they are calloused from work;
there’s dust under your fingernails.
even if divine angels came down from heaven,
and reached their holy hands out to me,
I would reach for yours instead,
because your hands, my love,
they captivate me, then set me free.
I have no poetry in me;
in me, there are valleys
full of dark memories,
there are rivers foaming against the rocks,
full of incomprehensible thoughts and anxieties.
In me, there are mountains,
made of challenges I am yet to overcome;
struggles with my sense of self-worth,
fear of the unknown,
a cruel view of my own self.
There are dark clouds made of past mistakes,
threatening and ominous,
obscuring a blue sky full of hope,
the sun shines through,
and love endures.